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entrechat," said the dancing master, and brought his long cane down with a crack on the wooden floor.
    At the cue, Marianne leaped into the air, clicked her heels together, and then landed with a thump. She wavered for a moment, nearly fell, and regained her balance with an embarrassed burst of laughter.
    "Stand straight," the dancing master barked. Mirth fled from Marianne's face and she threw her shoulders back. "Again," the man said. "Step two, three, and entrechat!"
    Marianne leaped and flapped her feet and did her best to land with grace and dignity. As Poppy sat in the corner, dividing her attention between her knitting and Marianne's lesson, she reflected that she had gotten off easy. Since Poppy did not
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    dance, there was no need to disgrace herself trying to learn the strange new Analousian steps that were all the rage. They were part ballet, part acrobatics, and even the normally graceful Marianne was having trouble. Poppy thought that she could master the entrechat and a few of the other steps with a minimum of effort--after a decade of experience, she could dance on the steeple of a church if she wanted to--but she was thrilled to not have to.
    "Oof!" Marianne, temporarily released from her lesson, flounced into the chair beside Poppy. "I don't think it's going to look very attractive at the next ball, if the new dances make me all red and sweaty."
    "I'm sure that Dickon Thwaite will find you all the more lovely with a red face," said Poppy mischievously.
    "What was that?" Marianne looked at her, face even redder.
    "Nothing." Poppy turned back to her knitting.
    "What is that?" Marianne leaned in closer.
    "I was just joking," Poppy began, then saw that Marianne was looking at the tube of blue wool dangling from her hands. "Oh, it's a bed sock."
    "For whom? It's enormous!"
    Poppy held up the sock, which was almost as large and as long as a sweater sleeve. "It will shrink in the wash, and be just the right size for you," she told Marianne. "Truly."
    "You'd best let Ellen wash it then, if you want it to shrink." She rolled her eyes.
    "She's trying," Poppy said.
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    "I don't think she is," Marianne argued. "She looked almost happy when she told me yesterday that my new shawl was ruined."
    Poppy sighed. "It's true," she said, rueful. She wanted to give the new maid the benefit of the doubt, but Mrs. Hanks had been correct: the girl seemed to be purposefully inept, and showed no interest whatsoever in learning how to perform her tasks correctly.
    Clothing she took to mend or iron came back with larger tears and more creases. Every fire she laid smoked and sputtered, every tray she carried rattled until tea spilled or buns rolled off onto the floor. You could hear her coming by the clatter of dishes, and see where she was going by following the trail of broken china or crumpled stockings.
    "I certainly hope she doesn't lose her position here," Poppy said, absently counting stitches. "I don't know of anyone else who would hire her, and what other work could she find? If she tried the theater, she'd probably bring the whole set crashing down."
    Marianne snickered, which made Poppy feel a bit guilty. She hadn't been joking, not really. Ellen was so hopeless at being a maid that Poppy had indeed turned her mind to other careers for the girl, and couldn't think of a thing she was suited for.
    Still snickering, Marianne got back up to practice her dancing again. She stood in the middle of the ballroom, looking stiff and awkward, and then leaped straight up. When she came down hard, she gave a little shriek. "My feet!"
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    Without thinking about it, Poppy tossed aside her knitting and went over to her. "You landed flat-footed," she scolded. "And the way you're standing is giving me a crick in the spine. Do it like this."
    Throwing back her head and shoulders, Poppy bent her knees just slightly, jumped up and clicked her heels, then landed lightly on the balls of her feet. She didn't stagger, didn't bruise anything, and her